


Welcome To The New Age

by skyline



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: F/M, Incest, woods!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, there’s not a woman on the continent that compares to Gretel. Which is weird, probably. Hansel knows it’s weird. Most men don’t try to measure girls up to their sisters. He figures most men don’t have sisters like Gretel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome To The New Age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Breila_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breila_rose/gifts).



> This thing was actually a prompt for breila_rose's birthday in February that I never got around to finishing. Beta by the ever extraordinary jblostfan16.

Basically, there’s not a woman on the continent that compares to Gretel. Which is weird, probably. Hansel knows it’s weird. Most men don’t try to measure girls up to their sisters.  
  
He figures most men don’t have sisters like Gretel.  
  
When they first wandered out of the woods, splattered with gore and more than a little shell-shocked, everybody thought Hansel killed the witch. Sweet little Gretel might have helped, maybe just a little, but everyone knew boys were tough and girls were gentle. Extraordinary circumstances aside, Hansel had to have been the hero in the end.  
  
No matter how many times he tried to tell them differently, there wasn’t a single person in town who would believe him.  
  
“Leave it,” Gretel told him impatiently. Their new keepers at the orphanage wanted her to learn needlepoint. She loathed it passionately. “It doesn’t matter if they know the truth.”  
  
“It matters to me,” he insisted, because without Gretel, he would have _died_.  
  
She threw him a dark look before returning most of her ire to the cloth.  
  
Mumbled curses accompanied every dip of her needle. Hansel was trying to sew too, because he didn’t like to be far from Gretel anymore, and besides, it wasn’t so bad. He’d only pricked his fingers a few times.  
  
Gretel always kissed it better.  
  
The nuns said she would grow tamer with time. That she’d been through an ordeal that Hansel couldn’t understand, like he hadn’t _been there_.  
One day, once Gretel had coped, she would make a fine wife and mother.  
  
Hansel didn’t have to cope. Boys were brave about these things.  
  
But Hansel didn’t feel very brave. The candy house had made him ill. The witch’s face had given him nightmares. Gretel slept through the night unperturbed by much other than the prospect of more endless lady-training come the sun’s light. If she woke, it was only to kiss away Hansel’s nightmares, as if those too were a physical bruise.  
  
They took care of each other, or Gretel took care of Hansel. Their time spent in the witch’s hovel had changed something inside of her. She’d always been strong, but now she was steel. Hansel could see it in her eyes, when he thought to look; anger and rage and the unwavering desire to make it all right.  
  
As the weeks passed, the nuns began to despair of Gretel’s, uh, feminine charms.  
  
She barely noticed. She learned how to shoot from an older boy who watched her like she was built from candy, and then she taught Hansel.  
He didn’t know why, at the time. He’d learned from his father how to coax plants up from the ground, but his condition was too delicate to do that now, or much of anything else. Sticking a gun in his hands could have been disastrous, but Gretel gave him a big grin that spoke of steadfast faith.  
  
She thought he could do anything. The idea of proving her wrong terrified him.  
  
Now Hansel is big and strong, but none of that has really changed. Gretel remains the most courageous, outrageous, strong-willed person he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. Potentially disappointing her is forever enough to strike the fear of God in Hansel’s heart.  
  
And she still teases the fuck out of him when he misses a shot, like tonight. He glares balefully at the clean hole in the huge oak tree to his left, which is noticeably not a witch’s head.  
  
Ben landed the kill. He floated on a euphoric cloud right into dreamland, and now he snores peacefully, curled into Edward’s side. Gretel watches them both over the flickering fire with something that is not unlike fondness. It’s the closest to tender Hansel has ever seen her.  
  
“Should’ve picked up strays a long time ago,” Hansel calls to her, mopping at leftover viscera. Witch blood seeps everywhere, beneath tight leather and into his pores. Hansel never feels quite clean until it’s gone.  
  
“Jealous you don’t have any of your own?” Gretel taunts back.  
  
“Pets are too much work.”  
  
Gretel stands, dusting off her knees before purposefully approaching. When she’s close enough that they no longer have to yell, she murmurs, “Funny, that’s what I always say about you.”  
  
“You wound me,” Hansel tells her, tone light, a grin tugging his lips. Gretel lifts one shoulder in a carefree shrug, ruining the effect by wincing as she rotates it back. Hansel jerks his chin toward her. “C’mere.”  
  
She drops between the cradle of his knees without any ceremony, leaning her head back into Hansel’s lap. He gently cups her throat, slides his palm along the juncture of her neck and her collarbone, and then works outwards, towards muscle. Hansel knows instinctively where to dig his fingers in, how to knead the muscle to ease away the ache. He watched that last witch fling his sister back against a cliff base.  
  
It’s part of the reason he was so eager to take her head off.  
  
Gretel murmurs something low and pleased, the sound mostly lost beneath the chirp of night insects and Edward’s loud snores. Obligingly, Hansel works away at knotted muscle, perfectly content to be exactly where he is.  
  
Until Gretel murmurs, “Is this cleverly disguised foreplay, or are you being preternaturally kind?”  
  
Hansel side-eyes Edward and Ben, fighting his own interest. They don’t get much of a chance to do this anymore, not with their new travelling companions.  
  
“Foreplay implies there’s a main event yet to occur.” He uses his free hand to tousle Gretel’s hair. “I’m not into audiences.”  
  
“Trust me,” Gretel groans. “I’m well aware.”  
  
She sinks back against Hansel’s warmth, malleable beneath his touch. Sympathetically, he murmurs, “You’ll be headed for a nunnery at this rate.”  
  
Gretel snorts dismissively. “You’d wear a habit better. It’s the jawline.” She reaches up between them and runs a fingertip beneath Hansel’s chin. Her eyes pool with moonlight. “But, in case celibacy has lost its charm, I spotted a place across the river. It’s got…atmosphere.”  
  
A thrill shivers down Hansel’s spine. “You want to leave the kids all alone? They might wander into a candy house.”  
  
Gretel peers towards the fire, the embers crackling happily, sparks dancing into the night sky. Decisively, she says, “They can manage on their own.” She unfolds her legs and hops to her feet with a fighter’s grace, far more brash and hurried than any of the other women Hansel’s ever interacted with. “C’mon.”  
  
Hansel takes longer to unfurl his legs, still sore from getting his ass handed to him earlier that day.  
  
His lethargy does nothing to impress his sister, who asks impatiently, “Hansel, are you going to fuck me or not?”  
  
She punctuates the question with an incandescent smile, hair cascading around her shoulders. The firelight turns it to crimson and flame.  
There’s no one as tough as Hansel’s sister, but privately he thinks that there isn’t anyone as beautiful, either. Mina tried so hard to convince him that not all witches were bad, but he believed it the second he found out Gretel was one. The world would not create such a gorgeous creature only to steep her with evil.  
  
Hansel reaches out to touch her. Gretel flees, light on her feet, trailing laughter behind her. She sprints through the woods with the grace of a gazelle, weaving between the trunks of trees and earthen pits, and by the time Hansel caches up, she’s already across the swollen blue of the river that cuts the land in half.  
  
He wades to her, the water splashing up to his thighs at its deepest, his boots catching in the silt. From the embankment Gretel twists her fingers into the laces of her jacket, cocking a single eyebrow as Hansel struggles against the currents.  
  
“Am I doing this by myself?” She slips her hands down her front and murmurs, “Not that I’m opposed to it…”  
  
He laughs, stumbling out onto the sandy shore, sediment intermingling with mud beneath his feet before the ground turns soft and forest-dark. Approaching slowly, Hansel wraps his hands around Gretel’s waist. “Aren’t I supposed to be the eager one?”  
  
Gretel smirks, reading him as easily as a grimoire. “Are you not?”  
  
He kisses her then, because he’s wanted to for days, with a desperate edge in his bones that was driving him insane.  
  
Her lips against his are fever hot and just as zealous, knocking the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees. She mutters,  
“Fucking finally,” into the hollows of his mouth, and he replies, “Brat,” in the same irreverent tone of voice, chasing the reverberation of the words down her throat with her tongue.  
  
Gretel licks out against him, tasting and touching, her hands creeping across his chest. When they break for breath, the moon turns her milky skin to diamond and starlight. Hansel has trouble tearing his eyes away.  
  
Gretel runs her tongue across her lower lip, urging him out of his layers with one long look. Once Hansel’s chest is bare, her hands spread wide against the flesh of his belly, heat kicking up beneath the pads of her fingers. She kisses him soft, her mouth moving south, beneath the jut of his lip and lower still, sucking sweet against his jaw. He lets his sister do what she wants, intent on working open the buckles that keep her jacket closed.  
  
Beneath the stiff leather is the thin fabric of Gretel’s tunic, and then, nothing but skin. He breathes easier once he’s gotten her free of it, when he can cup the curve of her breast in his palm and feel her heartbeat pick up the pace. Gretel bites down against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, teeth scraping hard when he flicks his nail across her nipple, but it’s worth it for the happy gasp that escapes her lips.  
  
Hansel gently pulls away from Gretel’s teeth, brushing his mouth against her cheek for the briefest moment before he dips his head lower. He is attentive to her neck, because he knows it makes her sizzle beneath her skin. He likes her that way, bothered to the point of losing control.  
  
She arches against him. Gretel’s moan is throaty and rumbling. It vibrates against his teeth. Hansel nips at her collar bone. He flicks his tongue wet against the line of it, tasting inches of her at a time, until he is down the slope of her breasts, tonguing circles around each aureole in turn.  
  
That is when he decides to dip his fingertips inside of her as well, to curl and twist until she gasps.  
  
Neither of them wear underclothes when they hunt. It makes it easier to fumble the tight, wet leather down around their thighs. Boots are harder to kick off, too many laces, too much in the way, but it’s worth the trouble once Hansel’s got his sister’s legs wrapped around his hips.  
  
He can take her weight, but he doesn’t bother, falling back onto his knees, letting the earth support their tryst.  
  
Gretel rocks up against him, the fever heat of her pulsing. She slides against the length of him, but he doesn’t push inside. He waits, and waits, because Gretel knows what she wants, and how, and it’s better for everyone involved if she has her own way.  
  
When it happens, it’s slow, her teasing herself against the head of his cock, driving him insane and wearing this tiny, self-satisfied smirk all the while. She takes her time inching onto him, kissing Hansel’s mouth dry and open mouthed until finally she gives in, losing herself in the electric friction. She folds around him with a sigh, wet, warm, and tight on the inside.  
  
Hansel groans too loud, the noise dissipating into the wind, the hoot of owls and nightingales, and the restless babble of the river they’ve left behind. The night courses in his veins, and Gretel does too – he’s drowning in her scent, her skin, and the soft, muted sounds she makes.  
  
They echo down Hansel’s throat. They jangle his nerves and his ribcage.  
  
He fucks his sister slow, then rough, and when their hips collide it blacks out the moon and the stars. Nothing exists except for the galaxies in Gretel’s eyes. He rolls his hips against her, up into her, and she bears down around his cock, building a rhythm, taking the lead.  
  
Gretel always takes the lead.  
  
Hansel guides her through it with palms at her curves, everything inside of him molten and wanting. She envelopes him in silk, muscle, the thunder of her pulse. He fucks up to meet her thrusts, biting at her collarbone, her breasts. The lilt of her startled laugh crashes down around them both.  
  
He angles his hips, curving inside her, and she moans like a song, something the bards wouldn’t ever sing.  
  
“Missed you,” Hansel pants, words tapering into a grunt, and if Gretel doesn’t say she misses him to, he knows she’s thinking it when she sucks against his lips.  
  
He touches her breasts, flicks over her nipples, cages her ribs and her sternums and her hummingbird heart. In return she scrapes her nails down his back, miles of bare skin falling victim to her eager hands. She rides him slow, fast, then languid again, and all Hansel wants is to see her writhe, blood quickened and voice loud.  
  
His balls go tight while she works herself over him, sweat silvered by moonlight, and when Hansel can, he works his fingers between them, thumbing over her clit.  
  
Gretel doesn’t have a single sweet spot. She likes it up, down, everywhere, everything is sweetness, and when she comes, she is too. She closes so tightly around Hansel that they’re joined, the fluttering thrum of her, convulsing inside, heating his skin until he’s got no choice but to let go. The last moments of it stretch long and golden between them, while Gretel holds him through his orgasm, burying his head in her neck.  
  
Hansel breathes her and tastes her, his incredible, incomparable, utterly beloved sister. He rubs at her shoulders when she collapses against him, the both of them tumbling back against the grass and the dirt.  
  
Behind their heads, the river sings. Hansel says, barely a whisper, “I love you, you know?”  
  
And Gretel tells him, “Yes. Absolutely,” her voice dreamy and faraway. She hugs him closer, because she can, because this is how it is, this is what she knows, the evanescent quadrille of night netted around the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms. She’s comfortable, drifting, but Hansel is so very present. He no longer feels battered from the fight, only loose and happy, un-plagued and safe.  
  
Which makes sense, really. Gretel always kisses him better.


End file.
